Sundays are meant for not-waking up. Unless, of course, you’re a parent

And so it would have been, if my littlies hadn’t heard about their twin friends heading to the play area.

I don’t know how my Sunday morning went from ‘happy cup of coffee’, to ‘town of repressed children’. Sound levels soared. And while I was still dealing with that, the lady at the counter shrieked – “Rs70 for each socks, madammmm.” Three of our bunch of four, had come without socks. Ugh. I think they’d make more cash selling ear plugs.

Surely, these kids should be in a maidan; flying around, playing group-games, and running madly. Instead, hoards of them scuttled around a few thousand square-feet in a mall. Then, as if the aural assault wasn't enough, badly-produced nursery rhymes hit the speakers.

That’s when I smelt a baby's full napkin. As I tried hard to find my phone (and sanity), a skinny, large-toothed boy next to me slammed a water bottle on the table... (and in the words of Aerosmith) “…again, and again and again....” Soon, more joined him and a crowd of kids outside the play area were slamming bottles. It was a thing.

A super-efficient young janitor jetted by, every few minutes. While Sabre-tooth and his friends threw, cleaner-boy cleaned up after them. Wow. What a lesson the kids were learning in affluence.

In the (caged) play area, each child shouted louder than the other and jousted for equipment. Frantic mothers stormed the play area, dads passed out on the couch – what an odd scene of urban parenting it was.

But, at least, I wasn't alone. Scores of parents were giving up Sundays to let their kids play. I looked at one decidedly-resigned dad and thought, “I know, brother.” But I soon noticed his smiling gaze was aimed a bit lower than my face. Ugh! Maybe this Sunday gig was working well for him, and wasn’t a sacrifice after all.

Watching the kids, I realised, that at the heart of it, was the need for fellowship. This modern zoo is where millennial children got their animal on. Over-priced funky town was a place to mingle and experience “community”.

And speaking of funky, I smelled more diapers.

When would they call it a day? How long was 90 minutes? In a flash, my four reappeared. “Water! Water!”, as if they’ve been trekking in the Thar. What a dream though, to watch them guzzle! With the deafening noise, I noted that no one managed a conversation. Everyone inside the play area was on speed, and everyone outside, was on a bad trip. Were they pondering the things of life, like me?

One Mama dropped a little pink-and-purple cutie at the entrance, freshened up in the bathroom, and headed out to the mall. The cutie ran up for a hug, but got a wagging finger and a threat, as Mama walked out. Sullen cutie walked back into the zoo, where she had to spend 90 minutes with a bunch of loud, strange ones.

Clearly, Mama needed her space or a break. I wondered what she was running from. Or to.

In my case, I was just a martyr with a conscience. I too had planned on leaving the kids, but had noticed a weird dad in the play area, who gave me the chills. I couldn't leave the kids unaccompanied. Was it headache-inducing? Yes. Was it all bad? No. By the time I got bail, I realised there were parents bonding with their own, managing to shut out the din and have a good time. This was “community” where parents could get a break. And with a few safety-boxes checked, this wasn’t half-bad.

The experience could make children immune to noise, drain batteries, and drink lots of water – which was great.

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